


take poison from your lips

by rottenboy (TechnicalTragedy)



Series: arrangement [3]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Sex, Gentle Sex, Hand Jobs, Heartache, Kindness, Kissing, M/M, also they have sex in the hot air balloon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9162352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/rottenboy
Summary: Glanni lasts three weeks before that itch under his skin gets to be too much. Only Íþróttaálfurinn knows how to scratch it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> wow these things just get less sexy and more sad every time. yikes.
> 
> title from "be mean" by dnce

Glanni lasts all of three weeks, his nose healing and his bruises fading from his skin, before he needs to see Íþróttaálfurinn again. It's pathetic, he knows, but there's been an itch under his skin ever since Íþróttaálfurinn left, and Glanni knows precisely how to scratch it but is too proud to admit that it's in a spot he can't reach. He would never, ever admit it to Íþróttaálfurinn, but the elf has a way of getting his hands in Glanni's guts and tying them into knots, of flipping his brain around in his skull until he feels correctly oriented. Without a hero to balance him, what use is a villain?

 

He sure as hell doesn't love Íþróttaálfurinn, but Glanni can admit when he needs something.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn isn't hard to find. He can't be, when he spends most of his time in an extremely unsubtle hot air balloon. Glanni tracks him down to a wholly unfamiliar city Íþróttaálfurinn is moored in, the elf nowhere in sight, and Glanni settles down into the balloon to wait. Maybe it's a little much, but Glanni has never been one to do things in half-measures.

 

It doesn't take _too_ long for Íþróttaálfurinn to come back from wherever he's been. Glanni wishes it had, because then maybe he could've come up with some clever quip that would make Íþróttaálfurinn realize he wanted Glanni back.

 

“Hi,” Glanni says, instead. He knows he's sleep-mussed from the half-doze he's just been shaken from, he's just sitting there at Íþróttaálfurinn's feet like a lost puppy.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn is staring at him like he's got two heads coming out of his neck.

 

Glanni clears his throat, rises up onto his knees, and before he can get another word out, his perfectly painted lips open on an explanation, Íþróttaálfurinn waves a hand dismissively. Íþróttaálfurinn grumbles something out in Elvish, turning away from Glanni and starting up the process of getting his balloon up in the air. The silence is pervasive, but not especially uncomfortable. Glanni arranges himself cozily, refusing to rise so he won't have to see the nauseating height the balloon might reach.

 

When they're high enough above ground that Íþróttaálfurinn can let the balloon do its own thing, he finally looks at Glanni. “I thought I made myself clear,” he says.

 

“What,” Glanni says, “when you told me that you didn't want to see me anymore? You and I both knew that wasn't going to last. I thought I would speed up your surrender. Really, I'm doing the both of us a favor.” He gives his best, most charming grin.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn narrows his eyes, giving Glanni a look that is _far_ too discerning. “Are you sure this is about me?”

 

Glanni scoffs as if the idea is absurd, but then Íþróttaálfurinn takes a step toward him, minimizing the already insignificant distance between them, and Glanni's mouth grows dry. “Oh, of course this is about me, elf,” Glanni says. “I don't- I don't _do_ things for other people.

 

“Why are you here?” Íþróttaálfurinn says.

 

And that's the crux of the matter, isn't it? If he's honest, Glanni doesn't fully know why he decided this was a good idea. Sure, he misses what they'd had, but when Íþróttaálfurinn is looming over him like this, a contrast of terrifying and familiar, something eerily like sadness makes a home in his chest. Glanni swallows, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I, um,” he says, can't finish.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn is in front of him, now, arms hanging at his sides. He's looking down at Glanni with warmth, not fury, and Glanni doesn't know how to process it. He says, “Glæpur,” and the word is dripping promise.

 

“I needed you,” Glanni admits in a small voice.

 

His ears heat as Íþróttaálfurinn reaches down to stroke a hand over Glanni's cheek, the touch entirely different to what Glanni is used to. “What did you need from me?” Íþróttaálfurinn says.

 

Glanni swallows again, his throat clicking. “Whatever you wanted to give me.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn nods like he understands. “Whatever you deserve, right?” Glanni nods with more energy than he means to, but it just makes Íþróttaálfurinn's smile widen. “And what do you think you deserve?”

 

“Not your kindness,” Glanni says. He'd thought there'd be more wind, more noise for his whisper to get lost in, but Íþróttaálfurinn's keen ears could pick it out even if there had been. Glanni has nothing to blame the tears welling in his eyes on, and he blinks them away stubbornly. “I've been, well, I've been trying, but I don't deserve your sympathy. I don't.”

 

“My darling boy,” Íþróttaálfurinn says, and it takes Glanni's breath away.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn lowers himself to his knees, down to eye level with Glanni. He caresses Glanni's face, eyes boring into him like he sees down to the rotten core. He's being too nice, too much for Glanni,but his attempts to pull away are met by firmer touches. The basket rocks with their movements, enough so that Glanni has to stop resisting and let himself fall prey to the conflict in him.

 

“You stayed away as long as you could?” Íþróttaálfurinn asks.

 

Glanni nods. “I tried,” he says. “I tried to keep away.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn thumbs away a tear that manages to escape Glanni's eye. “But you needed me, in the end? After three weeks, it was too much for you.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Glanni says. “You told me-”

 

“I know,” Íþróttaálfurinn shushes him. “I meant it, at the time. You've been hurting without me, even more than you hurt with me. Is that right?”

 

The words get caught in Glanni's throat, feeling too honest, like if he admits to this something will change irrevocably. His mouth parts around the words, unable to sound them out. The sadness in his chest is expanding, filling him up and overflowing. “Yes,” Glanni manages to croak.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn kisses him and all at once the world condenses to motes of dust, sound and color fading, leaving only the heat of Íþróttaálfurinn's mouth against Glanni's and the overpowering sensation of being the last person let in on a good joke. The wind carrying them over the landscape vanishes, as do any of Glanni's remaining inhibitions. Of all the things they've done, the violence and sex and their twisted game of cat-and-mouse, this softness is what manages to obliterate Glanni.

 

“Tell me you need me,” Íþróttaálfurinn says.

 

Glanni says the words, the wits to refuse such a request not even possible to gather. Of course he needs Íþróttaálfurinn, who else is there?

 

“Tell me you hate me,” Íþróttaálfurinn says.

 

Glanni does, and the words are acid on his tongue, he almost chokes around them because he doesn't, he can't, not anymore.

 

“Tell me you love me,” Íþróttaálfurinn says.

 

Glanni stutters over it, his breath drawn ragged past his teeth, feeling that sadness curling over his shoulders like a snake and constricting until he can't breathe.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn kisses him again, and again, and again, off into infinity. Each press of their lips is another part of Glanni that Íþróttaálfurinn has. He's collecting his body, stitching him back up with patches of fabric, making a man that loves him, hates him, needs him and could never leave. Glanni's hands shake, and Íþróttaálfurinn steadies them with his own.

 

“Hit me, come on,” Glanni says. He thinks he might be crying.

 

“Not right now,” Íþróttaálfurinn says. He isn't crying, is pressing the buttons that make Glanni break.

 

They half-undress, the balloon swaying high above the earth, and Íþróttaálfurinn has lube tucked away in some pocket because he refuses to be caught unprepared for any situation. Glanni has both their cocks held in his long fingers within moments, Íþróttaálfurinn hand wrapped around his to guide their movements. Glanni pushes against Íþróttaálfurinn, his free hand splayed over the leather of Íþróttaálfurinn's chest piece. Íþróttaálfurinn grips Glanni's hip under the catsuit, not aiming to bruise but to comfort.

 

Glanni kisses Íþróttaálfurinn, this time, needing to feel him, and they rut into each other slowly, savoring the experience.

 

“It's okay,” Íþróttaálfurinn says. He kisses up Glanni's jaw, down his neck.

 

“Thank you,” Glanni replies out of habit, and Íþróttaálfurinn's hand tightens around them, grinding hard into Glanni as he does so.

 

Glanni whines, feeling pressure building in him. Íþróttaálfurinn moves the hand from Glanni's hip, petting his skin everywhere he can reach. Glanni's hand shifts up, cupping Íþróttaálfurinn's jaw to pull him in for another kiss.

 

He wants every part of Íþróttaálfurinn, wants to own him like he is owned, wants to consume and comply and be anything Íþróttaálfurinn could want of him. The thought of the both of them has Glanni spiraling higher, his fingers knitting into the hair on the back of Íþróttaálfurinn's head to push their foreheads together. Their cocks rub slick together, the channel of their joined hands serving to push them ever closer to orgasm.

 

They come with their lips pressed together, moans caught between them as they shake into each other.

 

Floating over the lands Íþróttaálfurinn is sworn to protect, Glanni feels at home in a way he hasn't since his rocky childhood. Hands rough from work touch him gently, like he's something treasured and delicate, and it's almost enough to make Glanni cry again. He tells himself he won't.

 

The two of them put themselves back together, not speaking much. The balloon begins to descend, eventually, and Glanni is faced with the unfortunate fact that whatever they just did can't last.

 

There's too much between them. Íþróttaálfurinn isn't made to be sweet, and Glanni can't delude himself into thinking that their uneasy alliance would remain intact forever. He'll be called back to crime, as he always is, and Íþróttaálfurinn will have to stop him. The two of them aren't supposed to coexist in harmony, but Glanni has accepted his role in the world. He's the villain, and Íþróttaálfurinn is the hero, and that's the way they have to be. He can have his memories, but never Íþróttaálfurinn. Glanni's made peace with it, he really has.

 

But as he gets out of the hot air balloon and meets Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes, the weight of all their history and their uncertain future bearing down on both of them, Glanni can't quite convince himself that the way it's meant to be is worth it.

 

Glanni watches the balloon float away until it's just a speck on the horizon.

 

Even then, the itch isn't scratched.

 


End file.
